


he would not stay for me (and who can wonder)

by what_on_io



Series: never give all the heart (for love) [2]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Angst, Asexual Relationship, Canon-Typical Violence, First Kiss, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Minor Injuries, Multi, Recreational Drug Use, minor quest spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-05
Updated: 2017-04-05
Packaged: 2018-10-14 23:22:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10546086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/what_on_io/pseuds/what_on_io
Summary: “I shouldn’t have- I can’t imagine that was pleasant for you, doll, not after- Well. Not after what you’re probably used to.” And then it clicks, how Valentine is probably imagining Danse’s jumpsuit stretched tight over his pectorals, the wind ruffling his dark hair, those brown eyes narrowed in concentration or disgust.“Nicky…” Hancock breathes, and it’s enough, somehow. Nick draws him closer by his coat lapels and then they’re kissing again, soft and slow.Hancock needs some help getting over Danse. Luckily Nick is there to cheer him up, even if it's not that simple.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I promised the second instalment to this series after my uni deadlines, and here it is! I'd recommend reading the first part before this so it makes sense, but if you don't fancy it, all you need to know is Hancock was having a casual hate-sex affair with Danse, who's now left for the Prydwen. 
> 
> I promise there will be more Danse/Hancock in the next instalment. I promise! 
> 
> Also I've taken liberties with MacCready's quest, so Nora knows about Duncan and Lucy beforehand. 
> 
> Title from A. E. Housman.

The same day the Brotherhood ship out, Nick Valentine arrives in Goodneighbor with Nora in tow, who’s bleeding heavily from a gash in her forehead and leaning on the synth for support.

  
Hancock hasn’t had much to do with her, in all honesty, other than a couple of favours here and there. She’s mostly recognisable from the blue vault suit she still wears, dark hair hanging limp down her back, and the tattoo peeking out at her collarbone. Pretty, he thinks absently. And she’s good people, if she’s hanging out with Nicky; he knows a good few people who’d be wary of traipsing around the Commonwealth with a synth. He also knows Pickman’s hadn’t been an easy job, knows that she could have easily taken Bobbi’s side in his storeroom and instead decided to put a bullet between her eyes. Nora’s welcome in Goodneighbor as long as she pleases.

  
And it’s always good to see Nick.

  
Hancock’s been lounging on his balcony overlooking the masses for the better part of the day. Sun’s out, warming his nine remaining toes and a triangle of bare chest where his shirt’s unbuttoned, and the door to the Third Rail is open so Magnolia’s crooning drifts upwards. Nice day for visitors, he muses.

  
He launches himself down the stairs to greet them, finds Nora staggering towards the bar clutching her head and Nick hovering worriedly behind.

  
“Shouldn’t she be runnin’ to Amari’s?” Hancock asks, slipping a Jet inhaler out of his back pocket and taking a puff. Sure, the doc specialises in working the memory loungers for Irma, but she could patch Nora up in a minute, no hassle.

  
“She’s off to see MacCready. Tried to convince her to at least pick up a couple stimpaks first, but she insisted, said she’s helping him out with something. Think the woman’s harbouring a bit of a crush - who’s an old bot to get in the way of young love?”

  
“Heh,” Hancock chuckles, letting a stream of Jet trail out of his mouth. Nick doesn’t flinch, although sometimes he acts human enough for Hancock to forget he isn’t.

  
“You mind?” Hancock asks anyway, just in case. He’s known Nick since he was a scrawny teenager running amok in Diamond City, Atom knows the detective’s seen him smoke enough times. But… Nora has a thing about cigarette smoke, he knows, and MacCready can’t stand to watch him shoot up in front of him - there’s no hope, kid’s squirmy about needles even after growing up in the Wastes - comparatively, Jet’s innocent enough. Still, if Nick’s bothered…

  
“Fine by me,” he says, and takes a pack of cigarettes and a lighter out of his trench coat. “While Nora’s not around and all.”

  
“How’s the detective’s life treatin’ ya, Nicky?” John asks after a minute. Nick’s looking up at the sky and exhales a stream of smoke upwards before he replies.

  
“Oh, y’know. Same old. Helping Nora search for her missing kid.”

  
“She’s got a kid?” Hancock asks. Somehow he didn’t take her for the mothering type - woman’s a badass with a minigun, he knows - and he can’t quite conjure an image of her holding a baby.

  
“Mmm-hmm. Not sure how much she wants to tell, but it’s all kinds of bad. Tangled up with the Institute.”

  
“Shit,” Hancock breathes, “Looks like you got your hands full, Nicky.”

  
“Could say that. How’s things here?”

  
Hancock pauses before replying, letting the Jet cloud the edges of his vision a bit. “Brotherhood assholes shipped out this morning, so people are a lot less jumpy,” he grunts. Nick’s amber eyes flicker towards him, gazes meeting for a second before John glances away. Nick knows, of course. Nick always knows.

  
“They gonna be comin’ back?” Nick drawls after a minute. Hancock can only shrug, taking another hit of Jet.

  
“Doubt it. Said they’ve got better things to be takin’ care of. Everyone’s glad to see the back of them.” And it’s true. Kent left the Memory Den for the first time this morning to trade with Daisy, after the past few months sending Irma with caps while he hid in the back room. Hancock was worried about him, poked his head round the door more than once to offer chems and food, but Kent would only say that he’d prefer not to get shot in the back and that he felt a lot safer inside.

  
They smoke in relative silence for a while, enjoying the summer air, until Nora emerges again with Mac’s arm under her shoulders, taking most of her weight. She looks paler than she had going in, and Nick’s over to her like a shot, cigarette abandoned at his feet.

  
“Mayor Hancock! Nice to see you again. Sorry I missed you on the way in - difficult to see through all the blood,” Nora says, shooting Hancock a grin that ends up aimed somewhere over his left shoulder. She reaches out a shaky finger to poke Hancock where his nose should be, then withdraws the hand slowly, still laughing. MacCready smirks at the frown on Hancock's face, arm still around Nora, until she pales a bit more and sways on her feet. Then the arm tightens, Mac’s own brows tugging together in a frown, and he stumbles a bit to compensate for the shift in her weight when she swoons backwards.

  
“This one needs to see a doctor, quick smart,” the synth advises. MacCready huffs a long-suffering sigh and rolls his eyes when Nick’s not looking.

  
“Got that, thanks, _detective_.”

  
“M’fine,” Nora slurs. “Just a stimpak and I’ll be fine.”

  
“Like hell you will, boss-“

  
“Mac, it’s just a scratch- Wait, where are you taking me?! MacCready!”

  
MacCready huffs out an incredulous breath, scoops Nora up from the knees and slings her over his shoulder to cart her towards the Memory Den, leaving Valentine looking a bit stunned in their wake. Woman’s like a thunderstorm, crashing through his town and leaving everyone reeling from the force of her.

  
“You look like you could use a chem break, brother,” Hancock jokes, reaching out to pat Nick’s metal cheek with a gnarled hand. Nick huffs a half-laugh out of his nose and accepts Hancock’s manhandling without comment.

  
“Guess I can lay low for a while. Think Nora’s going to grab a room at the Rexford, if you want-“

  
“What, you really think I’d let you pay your own way in my town, Valentine? ‘Sides, the State House is much comfier.”

* * *

 

  
Hancock wasn’t lying. He’s strewn over one of the couches with his feet propped up on the back cushions and his head dangling into space, while Nick curls in an armchair, fedora abandoned on the floor and chain smoking like this is the last chance he’ll get.

  
“So you and Danse…” the synth hedges. Fuck. Hancock takes another strong hit of Jet, thinking of the Med-X syringes he has stowed away in the desk and trying to weigh up the effort of going to get them against the pain relief from this conversation. Laziness and the Jet making his mind sluggish win out.

  
“Not much to tell,” he grunts. Nick looks sceptical, synthetic brow plates raised to give the impression of eyebrows.

  
“Hmm.”

  
Hancock glares. Dares Nick to push him just a bit further and he’ll- Well. Let’s say there’s enough Psycho in the room to make up for his lack of upper body strength.

  
“Y’know, Nora’s set up a nice little place up north. Sanctuary. Minutemen settlement,” Nick muses. Not pushing then, not yet. Hancock narrows his eyes just in case, trying to work out his angle. “She’s been gathering settlers to keep the place nice - and it’s safe enough, heavily guarded. She’s made it into a real home base.”

  
“You’re not suggesting I leave my mayoral duties behind and go live the good life, are ya Nicky?” Hancock asks, a warning in his voice. Nick only rolls his eyes - he’s known John long enough to be familiar with this particular brand of theatricality, knew it as soon as little John McDonough from Diamond City first showed up ghoulified on his doorstep in a red frock coat and tricorn, begging for a loan of caps.

  
“Nothing like that,” Nick says, slowly. “Only we were there a couple weeks ago. You know Danse is her sponsor in the Brotherhood, right?”

  
Hancock freezes. “Shit. Nora’s Brotherhood? Are you kidding me? Woman’s fine with a synth’s life on the line for her day in day out but she’ll side with those metal bigots-“

  
“She’s undercover for the Railroad, don’t give yourself a coronary. Besides, bit rich coming from you, isn’t it?” Nick asks, but he’s smiling gently. God knows the man didn’t have enough people willing to stand up for him when he first crawled up outta his trash heap, and Hancock’s seen his deflective sarcasm in the face of obnoxious synth haters enough times to know there’s no real malice behind Nick’s words. He’ll never talk about it afterwards, when someone humiliates him in public; that time they both ended up with beer tossed over them in Bunker Hill wrapping up one of Valentine’s cases, when some big brute of a man started a chant of _no synthetics in our city_ , Nick had only brushed Hancock’s concern off with a wry grin and an _I’m used to it by now, John_. Hancock never bothers to point out that he shouldn’t _have_ to be used to it - they’ve both been around long enough to know damn well the world ain’t fair.

  
“Anyway, guy was fixing up his power armour. I was… there. I knew you two were involved, figured I’d introduce myself,” Nick muses, slipping himself off the armchair and sidling over to Hancock’s couch to plop down beside the other man.

  
Hancock nearly swears. True, Nick knows him better than a lot of people, but he doesn’t know the whole story even if he can fill in most of the blanks. Hancock’s hubflower-tinted a lot of it - ‘course, even he can’t sugarcoat _some_ brahmin shit, but for the most part anyway, shoved Nick away with platitudes. _He’s not that bad. Not compared to some of them. It’s just casual. It doesn’t mean anything to me. Hey, I’m getting a good fuck out of it, who cares?_ But. If Nick’s been prying around Nora’s friends…

  
“Guy told me where to stick my big synthetic nose next time,” Nick says gently, one hand going to pat Hancock’s knee. Could be a way out of the conversation, could be Valentine’s way of letting Hancock know he senses things aren’t exactly rosy with Danse. Either way, he knows not to press.

  
“You know what I think about the Brotherhood, John. They’re no good. Show up with that giant airship of theirs seizing land that doesn’t belong to them, taking supplies from honest farmers who’re struggling enough already… all in the name of protecting the Commonwealth, and that’s not even getting started on their hate campaigns. And we both know John Hancock and _casual_ don’t go in the same sentence unless there’s a giant _not_ in the middle.”

  
Hancock’s about to protest, flourish his multitude of affairs with his band of lovestruck citizens and that one night of passion with Magnolia in Nick’s face, but honestly, the man’s right. He gets attached. Stupid, really, but opportunities start drying up when you’re a ghoul, and night after night of people shucking on their jackets and leaving without so much as a brief snuggle for warmth afterwards… it gets tiring.

  
“Nicky, I appreciate the concern, but-“

  
“I’m not going to tell you how to live your life, Hancock. God knows I’m not in any position to. And hell, if the guy makes you happy, I’d say go for it. But something tells me he doesn’t.”

  
“And you know what makes me happy, how, exactly?” Hancock grunts, staring down at his Jet inhaler like it holds the answers to all the world’s problems. He’s about to start railing about how Nick’s hardly ever around anymore, how he asks Nora on cases instead of Hancock now, like he used to, how he hasn’t been to Goodneighbor in months and shows up one day on his doorstep presuming to know the ins and outs of Hancock’s private life-

  
He doesn’t get to vocalise more than the first syllable of _Valentine_ before Nick surges forward to press his lips against where Hancock’s used to be, muffling the sound. The shock hardly has chance to fade before synthetic lips are torn away again and Nick sits back against the cushions, panting as if he actually needs to breathe.

  
“Sorry,” he mutters. Hancock, still fuzzy from the Jet, can only widen his eyes in surprise and confusion, touching fingers to his lips to try and fathom the loss.

  
“What for?” he asks eventually, head spinning. Valentine kissed him. Valentine, who’s always rolled his eyes at Hancock’s advances like he was joking, who smirked the one time he danced his fingers up Nick’s thighs and tried to pull him in for a kiss with his tie. Hancock always figured it was down to the ghoul thing, or the synth thing, or the _Hancock can’t do casual_ thing.

  
“I shouldn’t have- I can’t imagine that was pleasant for you, doll, not after- Well. Not after what you’re probably used to.” And then it clicks, how Valentine is probably imagining Danse’s jumpsuit stretched tight over his pectorals, the wind ruffling his dark hair, those brown eyes narrowed in concentration or disgust, his ass in the air when he bends over to pick up a fallen shirt-

  
Okay, so maybe Nick ain’t imagining that last part, but Hancock gets the picture. Maybe it’s jealousy, maybe he felt like staking his own claim after all these years. Maybe anger, at Hancock lowering himself to sex with someone who can’t stand to look either of them in the eye. Hell, maybe it turned him on.

  
“Nicky…” Hancock breathes, and it’s enough, somehow. Nick draws him closer by his coat lapels and then they’re kissing again, soft and slow. It doesn’t taste like kissing a human, it’s not hot or wet enough, but it’s gentle, and it’s _Nick_. Hancock’s dizzy with him - he’s wanted this for a long time, since he first became Mayor and thought he held the keys to the world right in his stupid twenty-something year old palm. And Nick’s always denied him, until now, until-

  
“Why now?” Hancock mumbles against the synth’s lips, pulling back only enough to breathe. Nick’s metal hand raises to cup his jaw, stroking the ridged skin there gently.

  
“You deserve better,” Nick says simply. His face twists in consternation, like he’s fighting a battle with himself, and Hancock lets him draw away to fiddle with his cigarette lighter while he thinks up what to say. “I- I’m not Danse. You know that. I don’t-“

  
A smile tugs at Hancock’s lips, and suddenly everything slots into place. He feels like an idiot for not realising before - hell, he _did_ realise, he just figured Nick knew him better than that - and a laugh erupts out of him before Nick can finish his sentence. “This your way of trying to tell me you don’t have the parts?”

  
“Wish I could see the humour in it same as you, doll,” Nick deadpans, sobering Hancock a little. Not fully, just enough that he can pull Nick close and press their lips together again. It’s less gentle this time, because Hancock keeps snorting with laughter between kisses until Nick rolls his eyes and yanks the tricorn off his head to shove them both back further into the cushions, so Hancock doesn’t have the breath to laugh anymore.

* * *

 

“I know you love him too,” Nick mumbles when they’re tangled together later. He’s smoking again, his free arm curled around Hancock’s shoulders where the other man lies across his stomach. Hancock toys with the hem of Nick’s coat before answering, stretching up to steal a drag from the cigarette.

  
“Doesn't matter much now, does it? Ain’t like he gave a shit about me. He’s Brotherhood, I’m an ‘abomination in need of swift eradication’. His words.”

  
Nick snorts, but there’s a furious darkness to it, “Doubt he’d be shacking up with you if he really thought that.” Another long drag on the smoke, enough time for Hancock to squirm around so he’s sitting in the crook of Nick’s knees, peering up at him.

  
“I mean it, Nick. Doesn’t matter.”

  
Valentine gives him a long, hard look, amber eyes narrowing in seriousness. “Look, love. I’m too old to be jealous. I just want you to be happy. And if there’s a chance he’s still in the picture, well…”

  
“Y’know the sex part doesn’t really bother me, right? I’ve had my fair share, ain’t like I’m gaggin’ for it or anythin’-“

  
Nick’s turn to laugh, now, so smoke chokes out of his mouth and nose at the same time. “It’s not that. I just mean… monogamy isn’t like it used to be. No ministers lining up to marry everyone off outside’a Diamond City, anyway.” He sounds like the awkwardness is choking him along with the smoke, and Hancock decides to spare him, taking Nick’s metal hand in his and clutching it tight.

  
“Okay, Nicky, I promise - when Danse shows up on our doorstep, confessin’ his undying love and begging me to take him back, I’ll give it a good think over before I shoot down the flying molerat overhead. How’s that?”

  
Nick slaps him gently on the shoulder, and pretends not to notice that Hancock’s eyes are shining with mirth. Well. Mirth or tears, he isn’t entirely sure.

* * *

 

“Mac! On your left!” Nora screams, ducking behind a plastic road barrier just in time to avoid the brunt of a shotgun blast. There’re laser beams hitting the ground by her feet whichever way she turns - damn these fucking Gunners and their fucking energy weapons - and she’s lost sight of MacCready in the fray.

  
Nora fumbles the rifle up from where she’d dropped it in the dirt, reloads as fast as she can, and springs back to her feet. Frantically, she whirls around, narrowly missing a spurt of plasma from a Gunner up ahead, and manages to dispatch the bastard with a few rounds from her own gun. Goes down like a sack of rocks, splayed in the mud, easy as stompin’ on a radroach. She has about ten seconds to search for her companion before another sneaky rat bastard catches her unawares, jamming the butt of his gun into the meat of her neck.

  
Nora’s turn to fall like so many rocks, now. The pain blossoms bright, blinking stars in front of her vision, and for a good minute she can’t get up again, lying stunned on the ground. The Gunner looms over her, ready to take her head off with a burst of energy fire, and she’s squeezing her eyes shut in anticipation of the end when his own head blooms scarlet with blood, and Nora finds the strength to weakly lift her gaze to see Mac bolting over, sniper rifle in both hands.

  
“Sh- hell, Nora! You could’ve died!” he scolds, kneeling immediately to inspect the wound at her neck. She tilts her head to the side to help a bit, but there’s no _time_ , and she has to get the fuck moving else Winlock and Barnes will either ship out or murder the both of them.

  
“I’m fine,” she grumbles, using his shoulder as leverage to pry herself up off the floor. “Let’s get moving. I want to finish this.”

  
“You sure? You don’t look so good, boss, we can come back-“

  
“Bullshit. These bastards won’t stop looking for you, MacCready. We need them off your back - I said I’d help, and I will. Alright? I’m gonna be fine,” Nora insists. She knows what’s lurking behind his eyes, knows he’s seeing Lucy in a sea of ferals, rotting arms and blank faces raised high, drowning her. Seeing himself yanking Duncan out of the fray and running for both their lives. She won’t let it happen again.

  
She gives his hand what she hopes passes for a friendly squeeze and plants her feet firm, making sure none of her armour has come loose before she rechecks the gun and makes for the Interchange.

  
They find Winlock already suited up in power armour, guarded by an Assaultron, Barnes backing him up further down the bridge. Mac tenses at her side, raises his rifle before they’re even off the elevator and peers down the scope, his entire body rigid with concentration. Nora picks off the Gunners running towards them while he heads for Winlock, takes cover long enough to fumble the missile launcher out of their pack. She gets one fucking shot at this, and she’s gonna make it count.

  
“Mac! Get the fuck out of the way! I’m gonna blow these fuckers sky high!” she yells. She glances over her shoulder to assess the situation - Mac’s holding his own, of course, popping heads off Gunners so their blood spatters the road. He’s too close to them for her to shoot without him taking the majority of the blast, and he isn’t moving, too focused on getting his hands on his tormentors to listen-

  
“MacCready! Get out of the way!” she screams again. She spies Barnes approaching from the left, aims a few rifle rounds at the man’s shoulder without much success - he keeps right on coming. Too close to Mac, now, too fucking close-

  
Nora hears the telltale whir of an Assaultron and spins around fast enough to see it streaming towards her, metal claw outstretched to wrap around her neck. Nearly too late, she grabs the fallen missile launcher and squeezes the trigger, the scream of the missile deafening and too close to her own ears-

  
The blast knocks her out of her crouch to sprawl on the tarmac close to the remaining Gunners. Through blurred vision she sees RJ backed into a corner by Barnes, Winlock flanking him, and she can’t do a damn thing about it, stranded starfish-like on the ground, pain pinning her down. It feels like her legs have been blown off - hell, maybe they have. Fuck, it hurts. And Mac-

  
“Mac-“ she chokes. Winlock inclines his head towards her with a lecherous grin, and starts coming towards her.

  
“Still alive, girly?” he sneers. She sees MacCready’s eyes widen, mouth opening as if to shout only to be silenced by Barnes’ gun, the barrel stuffed in front of his face. He looks hopeless. Fuck, it is hopeless, everything’s fucked-

  
“Fuck you,” she spits at Winlock’s feet. A solid kick from steel-toed Army boots to her ribs arrives like Aunt Linda’s last shitty Christmas gift, stealing the remaining breath from her lungs. Her fingers clench around the only weapon left in her arsenal, the shitty 10mm she’d picked up fresh out of the Vault, useless. Still, at this range-

  
It takes all of Nora’s strength to grip the pistol hard enough to raise it, and more to squeeze the trigger. Winlock’s brain matter sprays the rusted out truck behind him, a satisfying crunchy sound that would have made Nora sick just a few weeks ago. She’s stronger now, though. Tougher. If Nate could see her now, he’d-

  
Well. Maybe he’d hate her. Maybe he’d admire her. Her husband probably saw his own fair share of brain matter in the war, although he never liked to talk about it afterwards, only gave her a spiel about how he’s proud to have served his country and helped the war effort, how he’d do it all again in a heartbeat. Always claimed he didn’t remember the nightmares, either, although he woke her up nightly screaming, and later he’d wake Shaun too, and Nora would have to rock her baby back to sleep while the dawn light turned the nursery yellow and her husband went back to sleep-

  
The memory wears itself out as Nora’s vision comes back into focus and she hurls what’s left of her stomach contents onto the ground. Still dizzy with the pain, her gaze flickers upwards to look for MacCready - shit, MacCready! - and sees him crumpled in his own pained pile, eyes squeezed shut and Barnes’ body strewn over him, taken out by a surprise blast to the chest. No way to tell if either of them are still alive from way over here, but Nora’s in no real state to move. Stimpaks. Stimpaks are a good idea right about now. If she can reach her pack, there’ll be Stims, and Stims will make this fucking pain stop, and then she can get to MacCready-

  
“I’m coming, Mac,” she whispers. Her right hand can just about reach the strap of her pack if she stretches, although it feels like her arm’s being ripped off at the joint. There. Her fingers tighten around the ratty fabric and she tugs it towards her, ammo and food supplies spilling out as she does so.

  
There are six Stims left. Not enough to fix her legs if they’ve come clean off, but enough to get her to Mac. She injects two of them into her side and sits up, pleased to find that both legs are still intact. She’s never been so glad to see her toes before, not even after she shed the pregnancy weight.

  
And now she can crawl over to RJ, prone under Barnes’ body, easily shoved aside. He moves like a corpse, lolling away when she pushes, thankfully. She doesn’t bother checking for a pulse, only scrabbles over to Mac and presses her fingers into his neck, relieved to find a weak flutter there. Thready, but there. The rest of the Stims go into his arm, and by the third his eyes have fluttered open and he’s blinking up at her.

  
“Fuck, Mac. I thought I’d lost you.” And then she’s sobbing. Of course she’s sobbing. Nate wouldn’t have sobbed, probably. Nate would have been strong, would have bandaged the worst of the wounds and thrown Mac over his broad shoulders to carry him back to Sanctuary. Nora isn’t strong enough to carry him anywhere, not even with how light MacCready is.

  
“Nora,” Mac murmurs, “I’m fine.”

  
“Dumbass! I’m pretty sure this is the opposite of _fine_. We’re almost outta Stims, we gotta get you to a doctor. I think I have some Med-X left over in my pack, but there’s not enough-“ She shouldn’t have wasted the first two Stims on herself, should’ve saved them all for Mac. She shouldn’t have let the Gunner bastards get close enough to hurt him in the first place-

  
“This isn’t your fault, boss,” RJ says, like he’s reading her mind. She exhales, a long, slow sound, and rests her forehead against his chest, trying to remember how to breathe.

  
“I should have been better,” she sighs.

  
“They’re dead. Couldn’t have done much better, if ya ask me.”

  
“You’re hurt. Badly. I should’ve brought more supplies.”

  
“I’ll be fine. Not your responsibility, anyway - you’re the one paying _me_ , here,” he chuckles weakly. “Besides, I had worse with the Gunners, I promise. Look, just help me up and we can get outta here-“

  
“I need to patch you up.”

  
“I’m fine to move-“

  
“Seriously, Mac? You’re bleeding from the thigh and bruised to high hell, just let me-“

  
She takes a proper look at him, then, and sees his face has paled and he’s tense against the wall again. She’s almost tempted to glance behind, half-expecting Gunner reinforcements to have shown up to surround them, but she has a strong suspicion they’d have already dispatched them with a bullet to the back by now. No, this is something else-

  
“MacCready, you have to be fucking kidding me.” Nora nearly laughs. She knew he had a thing about needles, but fucking hell, they’re in the middle of a fucking battlefield here. Guy could be dying for all he knows, and he’s squirming away from the last Stim in her hand like it’s poison.

  
“It’s pathetic, I know,” he spits, “Just do it quick, alright? And don’t make me watch.”

  
“You just took two bullets to the leg and you’re worried about a tiny needle? Really?”

Mac shifts so she can inject it high in his thigh, blanching at the sight of the Stimpak and turning so he can stare out at the sky instead of watching her work. “Lucy was a medic, back in Little Lamplight,” he says after a minute, while Nora watches the wound knit back together. “She was the only one I’d ever let near me if I got injured on guard duty. She took pity on me, I think. Laughed at me for being a big f- idiot baby, but she put up with my whining all the same. And when we left for Big Town, she never made me patch myself up, knew I’d be a wuss about it. Got shot in the shoulder once when she was out scavenging, had to wait for her to get back because I couldn’t inject myself.”

  
“I’m sorry, Mac,” Nora says, because she isn’t sure what else she can say. Nothing will heal them both after what they’ve been through, except maybe the kids they have waiting on them. _Each other_ , maybe, if she had the courage to say it. Her heart aches for him, and she reaches out to hold his hand again, hoping to a God she doesn’t believe in anymore that it comes off friendly and not madly in love.

  
“Thanks for saving me,” MacCready tells her. She’s about to protest, tell him that he wouldn’t have needed saving if she hadn’t been such an idiot with the missile launcher, but he cuts her off with a kiss.

  
The kiss startles her so badly she yanks her head back before the right neurons have fused together in her brain to tell her that this is exactly what she’s wanted for the past month, and MacCready’s blushing scarlet and scrambling to his feet.

  
“S- Fu- Hell. Sorry, boss. Don’t know what came over me, just- Lucy, like I said. Used to her being the one to- Just got mixed up for a second there.”

  
Nora doesn’t know if he’s telling the truth or not, for a minute she doesn’t care, only marches right over there and crushes their lips together, forgetting about Nate and Lucy and Shaun for ten fucking seconds while she kisses the man she loves.

  
And when MacCready passes out a few seconds later from what she desperately hopes is the blood loss and not her kissing technique, she finds out that she actually _is_ strong enough to lug him the entire way back to Sanctuary.

  
Well, she gripes to herself. Nate would have taken rest stops in between, too.

* * *

 

Nora leaves MacCready to heal up in her old house with Dogmeat in his lap and Codsworth fixing him two-hundred year old food like a mother hen, recruiting Curie to change his bandages every twelve hours, before she heads back to Goodneighbor. No use heading to Med-Tek without him; she can get started on searching for Kellogg with Nick while he’s out. She’s reluctant to leave Mac, of course, but he insisted he was in good hands and actually Codsworth’s Instamash was always the right consistency of creamy vs. milky, so she could get on her merry way without worrying. She does worry, naturally, but once she reaches Goodneighbor’s gates and catches sight of Hancock and Valentine cuddled up on the State House balcony together, she forgets why she was ever nervous in the first place.

  
“Hey, guys. Hate to break up the party,” she calls up to them with a grin. Nick looks surprised to see her, but Hancock must be strung out on Jet since he only tips his tricorn to her and says _afternoon, sister_. She’s always liked the Mayor - wouldn't have shot Bobbi No-Nose dead if she didn’t - and Nick looks almost _happy_ for once, instead of rueful like he usually does.

  
“You fancy getting back on Kellogg’s trail, Nick? I feel like we were close.”

  
“‘Course, doll. A detective’s work is never done. Hancock, love, you don’t mind, do you? I’ll be back by tomorrow.”

  
Hancock looks a bit dejected even from where Nora is stranded on the ground, but he forces a smile anyway and pecks Nick on the lips, “Nah. Go do what you gotta do. Plenty of mayoral duties to keep me busy here. Y’know. People-watching. Testing out those new chems Fred’s churning out at the Rexford. Keeping an eye on Kent - man’s a rascal, y’know.”

  
“Why don’t you come too?” Nora calls, only remembering Kent’s face lighting up that time she’d mentioned the Silver Shroud in front of him. “Could always use an extra gun. If you can abandon your _mayoral duties_ long enough to help a detective and his partner on the road.”

 

Hancock visibly brightens at the suggestion, shucks his frock coat on from where it’s hung over his chair. “I’m sure I can rely on Fahrenheit to keep things in check here. Always said my tricorn's getting heavy anyways - been thinking about getting out on the road again for a while. Don’t wanna be comfortable for too long. No-one in power should be.”

 

“Sure thing, mister Mayor. I’m gonna go trade with Daisy for supplies until y’all are ready. I expect your people’ll be wanting a goodbye speech,” Nora jokes, and slips off.

  
Hancock smiles, and raises his face to the sky. “Alright, folks! Listen up!”


End file.
